I Hate You
by finjeof
Summary: Draco pushes Harry's idea of hate to an entirely different level. Pun-filled smut, a quick pick-me-up! HD.


(confused?? not as much as harry is.....)

Harry couldn't stop; he was far too excited now and the long, wooden broomstick between his thighs was taking him swiftly to his desired target, albeit too fast and under little control. He didn't care; the snitch was glistening attractively just above ground level, its wings grazing the fresh cut grass. Harry took a moment to ponder this; why bother to cut the grass beneath a Quidditch pitch? If anything it would be far more effective to leave the foliage to its own devices, and in doing so providing something of a cushioned landing for any unfortunate players. Harry knew only too well the cruel hardness of falling from the heady heights of the internationally adored sport.

Shaking himself to bring his mind back to the snitch, he plunged forth; his long broom venturing further into seldom occupied territory. It felt good; the rushing wind like fingers running through his jet-black mane, the reassuring hardness of his broom beneath his firm grip and, best of all, the knowledge that Gryffindor were about to win the Quidditch cup. Again.

As his hand clasped the golden ball the crowd let out an ecstatic cheer. Harry Potter had done it; their hero had performed admirably and with the success to which they had become accustomed. There was one person, however, who was far from impressed…

"Congratulations Potter," Malfoy spat.

Harry swallowed. They stood alone in the centre of the Quidditch pitch.

"Once again your fan club has something to prattle on about. Your ego is going to have expanded to enormous proportions. Well don't think, for one second, that you are secure in your little world of fame and adoration. One fluke victory and once again you are hailed as God. For how long do you think such blind veneration can continue?"

"Actually it's six,"

"Six what Potter? Merlin, you are insane. I knew it," Malfoy sneered.

"Six 'fluke' victories. Can't you count? I know its tricky, I usually find it helps to count my friends… Oh wait! I forgot you don't have any do you? Ok, what else? Virtues? No, silly me. Brain cells…"

"Shut the fuck up Potter," Malfoy said scornfully, "Are you trying to get a rise out of me? It won't work. For starters, do you honestly think I should be jealous of Weasley and Granger? And as for virtues, where do you get off claiming you have any? What kind of virtuous person lets his friend die at the hand of his archenemy instead of sacrifice himself?"

"ENOUGH!" McGonagall bore down on them, "Your behaviour is disgraceful," Harry glanced smugly at Malfoy, "both of you," Harry looked crestfallen.

"But Professor," he began.

"No buts Harry! Now, if you will behave like civilized wizards and shake hands I shall forego any punishments."

Slowly, each boy reached out for the other. Mistrust and hatred was clear in their eyes. As their hands touched, Harry thought he saw a softness flash across his opponent's face. At that same moment he noticed how smooth the skin felt beneath his fingers and the contrast between his own tanned skin and Malfoy's pale, elegant skin. It was not an altogether bad contrast…

Draco, too, had noticed a flicker of emotion other than rage in the boy's eyes. It intrigued him, and he continued to stare into the green pools for what seemed an eternity. They reminded him somewhat of the enormous emeralds on the hilt of his favourite sword. He had to stifle a laugh as the irony dawned on him – he used that sword to impale an imaginary Potter during the long, lonely holidays.

"Harry!" Ron and Hermione came rushing towards them, Draco groaned.

"Lookout Potter, the stooges are here," all traces of tenderness were removed from his chiselled expression. Draco was once again masked behind the icy exterior of his arctic eyes.

"Hey you two!" Harry smirked at Draco, for some reason hoping that he had taken note of his cunning remark.

"Harry you were…" Ron began

"Amazing; the way you…" Hermione continued

"Swooped like that. I've never seen…"

"Anyone fly so fast,"

Draco looked disgusted, "What the hell was that? Are you two trying out for the Doppelganger position in the travelling circus? I've heard they're looking for someone with talent though, so sorry," There was not a hint of apology in his voice.

"Takes one to know one, Malfoy," Ron wheeled on his most detested schoolmate, "I didn't see you catching the snitch out there today,"

"I thought I'd let Potter win, you know, to keep the fans happy,"

"Whatever Malfoy," chimed Hermione, "you just wish you had been in the stands watching like everyone else, instead of being completely humiliated out on the pitch," As usual she wasn't wrong; Draco did wish he had been watching. However, it was dawning on him that it was for a reason altogether different than everyone presumed. He would liked to have watched, and marvelled at, the spectacular flying skills of his Gryffindor opponent; to have seen that really sexy determined look he knew Harry got when that all important shiny ball came within grasp. He knew he was flushing as he let himself imagine that it wasn't the snitch that Harry was so desperately reaching out for…

"Oh look! Malfoy finally has the sense to feel embarrassed at his totally wet performance today," Ron crowed, one hand punching the air in triumph.

"Not at all Weasel," Draco retorted haughtily. "You may have noticed that it is rather cold out here in the middle of the Quidditch pitch; my sensitive skin is not accustomed to such torment. Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to go and have a shower before attending a team meeting. If you hadn't forgotten, a match has just been played – there are things to discuss and you are holding me up." with that he stalked off towards the changing rooms, where the hot, steamy showers were waiting for him.

That night found a small huddle of Gryffindors sitting by the fire in their common room discussing the match. Harry was only semi-listening as Ron, Seamus and Dean re-enacted the entire game. It was a little disturbing that they could remember every twist, every turn, performed by each player. He suspected they had used some form of vision enhancing spell that allowed them to concentrate avidly on several things at once.

"And just as Malfoy and Harry were about to collide, they both turned to Wood, who was shouting obscenities from the other side of the pitch." Ron was on his feet at this point, totally engrossed in his memories of the game. "I couldn't quite hear what he said but it was something along the lines of, 'Fuck! Harry if you don't fucking concentrate I'm going to fucking chuck you off the fucking team! You may be the best fucking seeker in the fucking school, but what fucking use are you in the fucking hospital wing? Get the fuck away from that fucker and look for the fucking snitch!'" Harry had to laugh at this point; Wood had a bad habit of appearing when Harry was about to collide with Malfoy and repeating varying forms of the word 'fuck'. Right now, however, this word seemed less and less of an insult and more of an appealing suggestion…

"Potter!" Snape hissed, "what on earth have you done? Yet again you have failed the most simple of tasks, is there nothing you are good for?"

I can think of a few things thought Draco, who was at that moment torn between feeling smug at Harry's incompetence and feeling a little hot under the collar due to the mental images he was concocting, involving mainly Potter and vast quantities of melted chocolate.

Harry, meanwhile, was eyeing his cauldron with bewildered suspicion. Instead of the smooth brown liquid he was meant to be seeing, his eyes were met with a sticky, white concoction.

"I, I'm not sure what happened Professor," he stuttered, with not a modicum of cockiness left in his voice. He was tired and couldn't be bothered to argue his case with Snape, despite the fact that he had carried out the instructions exactly as they were on the parchment.

"I am aware of that, you incompetent fool," snapped Snape, "and I am also aware of your error. Is it really that much of a problem for you to count out the right number of batwings? The list clearly states that you need three, whereas you, Mr. Potter, seem to think that you are special; that you can use only two." Harry could have died; it was only yesterday that he was mocking Malfoy for his numeric skills, or lack thereof. He didn't turn around, not wanting to know what smug expression Malfoy had chosen to wear today.

"In this classroom," Snape continued with relentless spite, "you must follow the same rules as everyone else. No cutting corners because you are a celebrity. No, Mr. Potter, in this classroom you are actually required to have, and utilise, brain cells." Harry groaned inwardly – had Snape known about yesterday's conversation?

I bet Malfoy told Snape Harry thought bitterly that's just the kind of sneaky think he'd do. Why the hell did I put two batwings in? He asked himself as an afterthought, although he already knew the answer – he'd been watching Draco as he lazily ran his fingers along the whole length of the fully extended batwing in his hand. He'll pay for this…

Harry had to stay behind to re-do the potion whilst his classmates went to dinner. This was the worst punishment he could conceive of – his appetite was large enough to rival that of a small country and he'd been especially looking forward to the meal today; it was his favourite – bangers and mash.

"Ugh what is this?" Draco asked nobody in particular, the sight of the Muggle food served as a personal insult to his pureblood eyes. All the same, he was really hungry and decided to swallow his pride – not being one to let his prejudices get in the way of his body's desires. He stabbed a sausage violently with his fork and cautiously put the end of it into his mouth. At that very moment the doors to the Great Hall opened and Potter walked in, heading straight for the Gryffindor table. Draco suddenly felt very conscious of the way he was eating the sausage and quickly put it back down onto his plate; he looked around shiftily, hoping nobody had noticed.

Across the Great Hall, Harry barely nodded acknowledgement to his companions before tucking in to his food. He was ravenous and put almost an entire sausage into his mouth at once. He didn't notice the pink tinge appear on Malfoy's face – he was too busy listening to Hermione's outraged voice telling him that he would "choke if he tried to fit any more into his mouth" and "couldn't he try to be more polite at the table?"

Draco couldn't have agreed more; it was not polite to eat so suggestively in front of someone who felt so affected by the sight of that long sausage sliding past warm, welcoming lips. He felt extremely grateful that he had worn his loose robes and that Granger had put a stop to Harry's methods of consummation consumption. Although, he had been rather enjoying the show…

"Draco? Are you alright? You actually have colour in your cheeks. I've never seen you look so rosy," Goyle broke his train of thoughts, which had been rapidly deteriorating into filth.

"I do not look rosy. It is merely a minor irritation caused by my new exfoliatior," he quickly lied, knowing this to be a believable excuse. "It is a terrible nuisance, I just can't seem to find one which is suitable for my delicate complexion," he knew he had already lost Goyle and no further explanation would needed.

Draco chose that moment to take his leave, not giving a reason for his departure; a Malfoy did not need to explain himself. He stood up and, using all of his self control, left the room without once glancing at Potter for fear of his blush deepening at the sight of him. His pace quickened to a run as he made his way down to the Slytherin common room.

He was relieved to find it empty and sat down in his favourite chair in the corner of the luxurious room. It was a particularly regal chair, covered in crushed velvet with enormous armrests. His 'throne' dwarfed Draco's slight frame. He didn't help this by curling himself up so he fit entirely between the armrests, his head resting on his knees.

It was in this position he remained, his mind constantly playing over the past two days. What was wrong with him? He hated Potter. The mere sight of him should fill him with loathing and disgust, not with lust and delight. Admittedly he was a very attractive young man; his shoulders were strong, the colour of his hair put the night sky to shame, his hands were manly and a single touch…

Draco stopped himself, forcing his mind to focus on how Potter had humiliated him yesterday. Draco hadn't even seen the snitch when he started his spectacular dive. His teammates had reprimanded him for his lax playing and the team talk after the match had consisted mainly of criticism towards the seeker. He felt so worthless, not something a Malfoy had to deal with often, and for this Potter should be punished. Somewhat pleased that he had managed to come to his senses, Draco unfurled himself and left the common room, just as Crabbe and Goyle were returning from dinner.

"'Ello," came a barely distinguishable grunt from Crabbe, "Where you off to?"

"I'm going to go and have a think," Draco replied with no small amount of superiority in his tone.

"Oh. Right," Goyle said, clearly unable to comprehend why anyone would want to think, let alone why they would have to go somewhere to do it, "see you later then."

Draco nodded in acquiescence and continued on his way to the one place he would be truly alone with his thoughts. He began to plot Potter's downfall as he walked, not being able to wait.

He had just disposed of yet another plan as he finally reached the Quidditch pitch. Upon arriving he walked to his favourite spot – the centre of the pitch – rolled up his robe to form a pillow and lay down, his eyes directed up at the starry sky. Here he felt completely at peace, although he did wish they wouldn't persist in charming the grass to stop it growing long; it would be far gentler on the back if only it were a little longer…

Lying on the grass he began his scheming in earnest. Potter would pay for stealing Draco's victory from him, he would pay for making him look like a fool, and he would pay for being the insufferable twat Draco knew him to be. Thoughts he had entertained earlier about Potter's possible attraction were far from his mind, replaced by vindictive intentions.

The buds of a master plan were beginning to flower in his mind, when a sharp pain alerted him to the fact that someone had just walked into him. Draco was immediately on his feet, fighting the urge to fall over due to a rather potent head rush.

"What the fuck? Watch where you're walking next time, don't you know you should be careful when walking on the Quidditch pitch after dark?" Draco knew this sounded ridiculous as soon as he said it, but to make matters worse a familiar voice replied,

"I should have known it would be you Malfoy. I suppose it's only at night that you can get in my way on the Quidditch pitch, you don't stand a chance during daylight."

A wave of anger coursed through Draco and he lunged at an unsuspecting Harry, who fell to the floor, Draco pinning his shoulders down with a surprisingly great force. Harry fought back, pushing his way on top of the other boy. In doing so he felt a rush of power, a certain enjoyment in dominating Draco. Before he could consider this, though, Draco had grappled, successfully, for control once again, knocking the breath out of Harry.

"Ow, watch it Malfoy!" Harry cried as his breath returned, looking up at his attacker, now bathed in a pool of moonlight.

Exactly Harry was going to say next shall never be known, for Draco stopped short his rambling by forcing his mouth down onto Harry's. To his bewilderment, Harry responded to the kiss, his lips positively melting under Draco's silken touch. His tongue crept curiously into Draco's awaiting mouth, licking gently every crevice on the roof of his mouth, eliciting a soft moan from the back of his throat.

Harry pushed Draco onto his back, facing no resistance this time. He leant in to brush lips once again, but paused slightly before making contact. The suspense was too much for Draco, who lifted his head, forcing red skin to meet with red skin. Harry drew back.

"But, I hate you. You hate me. We're enemies."

"That's right, I hate you Potter," Draco's eyes flashed as he reached up and bit Harry's pouting bottom lip, hard.

Draco's fingers snaked around Harry's back, dragging fingernails across his sky blue Muggle t-shirt, causing him to arch his back in pain. This only served to push their bodies closer together, the contact causing a reaction in both as muscular lines came into contact.

"Oh so you hate me do you?" Harry quirked an expressive eyebrow. His eyes flickered to the obvious bulge in Draco's trousers.

"Oh yes, with the fire of a thousand hells," Draco murmured, his hands drawing invisible patterns on Harry's back. His tone suddenly became more commanding, "Roll over."

Harry couldn't resist; Draco was incomprehensibly sexy when he was being controlling. He was right where Draco wanted him, and he wasn't complaining for a second. Draco's fingers continued to slide over his t-shirt, running over the black 'Gabriel' logo, noting the ridges where it lay over taut abdominal muscles, lingering painfully long on the edge of the fabric, not quite touching Harry's bare skin; aching in glorious anticipation. Draco watched intently as he tormented Harry, the unsated desire in the boy's face sent shudders through his body.

It was not long before he couldn't bear it himself; he allowed his curious fingers to slide over Harry's skin, moist with a layer of sweat. The slick muscles gave added life to the motion of his hands, which began to inch their way down towards unwanted jeans. Harry's breath quickened. Draco bent down, unable to fight the urge to lick the tanned surface of Harry's neck. Satisfied, and with the sweet taste of skin fresh on his tongue Draco set upon removing the offending jeans with a desperation he had not experienced before.

As he fumbled with the buttons, Draco murmured, "I hate you. I hate you so much," With each repetition Harry felt himself become weaker and weaker. He couldn't think straight. It seemed the words were having a similar effect on their speaker. Harry could feel Draco's erection pressing hard into his thigh as he concentrated on undoing his flies. Sensing he was having some difficulty, Harry reached down and easily undid the remaining buttons.

"Hate you too," Harry gasped as Draco's hand made its way into Harry's trousers, his fingers stroking the underside of his cock gently before efficiently removing all items of hindering clothing. Taking a firm grip Draco began to rub, slowly at first, but gradually increasing his pace, bringing Harry to a crashing, overwhelming climax. All the while Draco was chanting "I hate you," but he was doing a poor job of convincing anybody that this was the truth.

Harry took a moment to recover, but as soon as he could feel his feet again he set upon Draco, pushing him to the ground once again.

"What do you hate Draco?" Harry asked seductively, "Do you hate this?" He nibbled gently on his left earlobe, causing Draco to wriggle beneath him.

"Or do you hate this?" He kissed a path across Draco's well-defined jaw, before drawing his tongue over his chin, his lips, and into his mouth. Draco moaned.

"Perhaps you hate this?" He tugged off the cashmere sweater and was momentarily distracted by the sight that met his eyes – an expanse of muscle equally as chiselled as the cheekbones which adorned Draco's angular face. He got back to the matter at hand and swooped down, taking a hard nipple between his teeth. He sucked it until Draco cried out, struggling to control himself.

"Oh! I've figured it out. I know what it is you hate," he said these words slowly, enjoying the reaction as Draco came to the realisation of what Harry was about to do. His trousers were already half off before he knew what was going on. Images of Harry with that damned sausage flew into his mind, and he could feel the blood pulsing through his body. His eyes were fixated on Harry's mouth, unable to look away from the glistening red lips and before he could utter those three words one more time, he was plunged into the depths of delight. Harry's tongue glided over the head of his cock, pausing agonisingly before taking him completely into his mouth. A lifetime of unfulfilled desires and expectation suddenly took flight as, for the first time in all his years, Draco could ponder only the present moment. And it was the most satisfying moment he could have wished for. Bolts of sensation racked his slim frame; his hands tore in vain at the infuriatingly short grass, trying desperately to get a hold of something and his mind soared with passion. As he came he reached out his hands to run his fingers through Harry's messy hair. Harry withdrew slowly, holding Draco's intense gaze.

"I definitely hated that," Draco managed to say whilst revelling in the post coital bliss, "I think maybe you should suffer some more,"

Harry was not about to argue with that…

At breakfast the following morning, neither boy could help but glance at the other across the Great Hall. Draco deliberately chose to eat a plateful of sausages, taking great care to hold Harry's attention before consuming each one in a slightly different, and always imaginative, manner. Harry casually played with his wand as he watched, his fingers running along the smooth, hard wooden shaft, grateful that none of the Gryffindors were paying him any attention; they were all too busy discussing the merits of Muggle inventions.

"Not everything they create is useless," Hermione stated, "take for example the car, that is inescapably one of the most useful machines in existence."

"True, but it is based on an earlier model invented by wizards in the early nineteenth century. It ran on beetle magic you know," Ron said knowingly.

"Beetle magic?! Ron Weasley you appal me. What do you take us for, gullible fools?" Hermione snapped, only half in jest.

Several third years looked away, slightly embarrassed.

"It was worth a shot," Ron admitted with a grin, "You have to admit it would have been cool though – a beetle powered car."

"Whatever you say Ron," Seamus rolled his eyes, "It remains to be said that you have an unhealthy obsession with beetles."

"They were undeniably the best band ever to walk the face of this planet," Ron tried to wriggle out of this one.

"That was so poor!" Seamus snorted, amazed at his friend's lack of shame.

"Appropriate really," a new voice entered the conversation, and it held no trace of humour, "that a Weasley would have a poor sense of humour."

"Shut up Malfoy. Did you really walk all the way over here from your precious Slytherin lair to say that? If that is the case then you're even lower than I thought," Seamus said through gritted teeth.

"Sorry to disappoint you Finnigan, but I actually came over to talk to Potter," Draco drawled.

"What do you want Malfoy?" Harry asked, his heart racing.

"Oh, just to remind you how very much I hate you. I think it's something that needs to be re-iterated fairly often."

"Thanks for the reminder," he replied, needing no reminder at all to bring back memories that he had already replayed a hundred times since the night before, "I hate you too."

"Don't I just know it."


End file.
